


you are my centre when i spin away (out of control on videotape)

by lazarov



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcoholism, Heartbreak, M/M, Porn, Self-Loathing, Sex Tapes, Tattoos, oh god so i'm posting this huh, past-tense relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/pseuds/lazarov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On-screen, Niall bites him back, teeth grazing underneath pixelated-Zayn's left nipple, down his ribs, past the claddagh tattooed there in black, black ink. He reflexively clasps a hand over his chest.  Where it used to be.  After everything turned to shit, Zayn, piss-drunk and desperate and sitting in his flat alone, had stubbed a cigarette out right in the middle of the heart.  Now, all he has is two hands holding a mess of scar tissue and Zayn thinks, 'yeah, that's about right.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are my centre when i spin away (out of control on videotape)

**Author's Note:**

> SO, it's basically mandatory that you listen to **Videotape by Radiohead** before/while reading this fic. Mandatory, I tells ya.

 

 

 

Zayn pours himself a glass of whiskey, neat, more fingers than he's willing to admit, then sits, leaned forward in his leather armchair, bathed in blue light, and remembers.

 

 

The screen flickers as the video loads.  

The image finally comes up, blank white walls and clean, crinkled sheets.  Voices, laughter in the background.  His own voice.

- _You're ready for this?_

Hearing the voice that responds nearly makes Zayn grab the remote, shut it all down.  But he doesn't.

- _'Course I am._

More laughter _._ The picture shakes a little, and there's a rattling noise, like someone has bumped the camera.  Zayn takes a swig of his whiskey, slowly, and lets the burn stretch down his throat.  

And then there they are.  

It's his own face but a couple of years younger, missing the shadow that stretches across his jaw and the weight of regret that's forced itself into the lines on his forehead, in the corners of his eyes. And it's _him_.  It feels like a hundred years since Zayn's been able to say it.  Niall.  _Niall Niall Niall_.  He catches himself mouthing the word, rolling it around on his tongue and getting a feel for the shape of it.  Pretends that it could be any other word in the world.  _Meat war trolley asparagus rain fluoride.  Niall._ He has to take another sip of whiskey to get rid of the taste of the name.

\- _C'mere._

Their tops are off, nothing but slim hips in boxer briefs in tight jeans, and they're kissing now, this past version of himself and the version of Niall that lives on in his head, frozen the way he looks in the video - highlighted hair and braces and an awkward, self-conscious hunch in his shoulders.  

\- _You're so fucking beautiful._

Blurry, pixelated past-Zayn is unbuttoning _his_ trousers, sliding his hands down into _his_ pants, grabbing _him_ with rough fingers over sensitive skin.  Their gasps melt together and video-Zayn's face is hidden, pressed into _his_ (fuck, no, stop it, say it, say his name), _Niall's_ shoulder.  He's stroking Niall, dry and rough, and through the video grain Zayn can just barely see his doppelgänger rub his thumb over the head of Niall's cock, push his foreskin back, drawing a hitch in Niall's (Zayn's) laboured breath.  

_\- Fuck, there, Zayn, fuck._

Before, (the word _before_ has taken on a new meaning for him, he has to remind himself that it means _before now_ and not _before him_ ), Zayn would watch this tape and rub himself raw.  Eyes glued to the screen, he'd come on his stomach then continue to stroke himself, the overstimulation a small (too-small) punishment.  He wouldn't allow himself to stop until the clip ended and the screen went black.  Then, he'd clean himself up in the dark and curl up on the couch instead of crawling back into that fucking bed.

Now, Zayn sits forward in his chair, ignoring the press of his cock against his jeans.  That's not what this is about anymore.  This is about real punishment.  

His tumbler is empty, but the bottle's within reach.

_\- Fuck, fuck._

On-screen, Zayn is taking Niall into his mouth.  Gently, lovingly.  His eyes roll up to meet Niall's when Niall threads his fingers through his hair and when their eyes meet it's lost in the heavy video grain. Zayn squints, trying to force the pixels together, but then the moment's gone and the Zayn in the video is sliding back up, dragging his tongue across Niall's hipbones and pushing his trousers and pants to the ground. 

Past-Zayn palms his own erection through his jeans before having his hand pushed away -

- _Stop, stop.  Let me._

And they're kissing again, stroking each other loosely and slowly.

_\- Are you okay?_

_\- What?_

_\- Is this okay?  Do you want to stop?_

_\- No.  No, of course not._

_\- Okay._

Eyes rimmed red, Zayn tries to look away from the screen but the image of their bodies reflects and refracts in the bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in his lap and he thinks for a moment that - _oh, we're swimming in the ocean like we always wanted_ _-_ and then his drugged brain catches up and he forces his eyes back, watches himself drag his teeth down the curve of Niall's throat.  The image is so fucking beautiful, in spite of everything.  It's the most painful thing in the world, watching this memory now, after everything's turned to shit and it's all his fucking fault, but some part of Zayn still recognizes how fucking _beautiful_ they were together (he knows he's not beautiful anymore).  

On-screen, Niall bites him back, teeth grazing underneath pixelated-Zayn's left nipple, down his ribs, past the claddagh tattooed there in black, black ink.  Zayn reflexively clasps a hand over his chest.  Where it used to be.  

They'd gone to get matching tattoos ( _December 28th, 2013_ , he can recite automatically) while they were on Christmas break from tour. Niall's is on his hip (Zayn is thankful, now, that it's not visible from the angle he's standing to the camera).  They had decided at the time that one of the two tattoos had to be easily hidden from paparazzi photos and girls peering through fences (not to mention their respective fucking _parents_ ).  Zayn chose a spot over his ribs, so that when he pressed his fingers to the centre of his healed claddagh he could feel his own pulse through it as if it were alive. 

After everything turned to shit, Zayn, piss-drunk and desperate and sitting in his flat alone, had stubbed a cigarette out right in the middle of the heart.  Now, all he has is two hands holding a mess of scar tissue and Zayn thinks, _yeah, that's about right_.

\- _Fuck, yeah, fuck._

They're on the bed, on their knees, now frantically jerking each other off.  Zayn lights a cigarette as he watches himself thrust into Niall's hand.  He sharply exhales a plume of smoke at the screen, frustrated with his former-self's impatience.  _Should have fucking savoured it, stupid bastard_.   _Could have at least fucking kissed him_.  Niall is beginning to moan - short, involuntary noises, his voice breaking a little - and Zayn, now-Zayn, leans back into his chair.  His cigarette lays, ignored, between his lips and the smoke floats into his eyes, making them water and burn.  But he doesn't move.

- _Oh, fuck, I'm gonna - Zayn - I'm gonna -_

Niall's hand slips off of Zayn's cock so he can hold on tightly to his shoulders as he comes in Zayn's hand, eyes screwed shut, mouth open but silent. He always holds his breath when he comes. Zayn could always tell ( _back then_ ) when he was about to, because suddenly the only desperate pants and gasps he would hear would be his own.

Onscreen, Zayn jerks himself off clumsily, selfishly, coming with a quiet moan, forehead leaned against Niall's chest.  He flops down on the bed, spent, chest heaving.  Heart and crown and hands moving up, down, up, down.  Eyes closed.  Niall lays down alongside, pressing a kiss to Zayn's jaw and running his fingers over his hipbone, over the heart tattooed there.  Over the playing card on his inner thigh.

Zayn leans closer, trying to see it, trying to see how Niall looks at him in that moment.  Wanting, needing, to be reminded of what Niall's eyes looked like when he was in love.  What Niall's eyes looked like when he loved Zayn.  The camera's focus flicks in and out, blurring and unblurring Niall's face, and Zayn can't quite see it.

He leans in further, takes a few steps closer, a foot away from the 72-inch flatscreen he bought with what he can now only consider blood money.

He's not sure he really sees anything anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- _Love you._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_  
_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_\- Love you too._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
